


That Time Jon Was Sansa's Weed Hookup

by TacitWhisky



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Jon Snow knows nothing except where to put it, Jon and Sansa Are Not Related
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 11:08:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19108429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TacitWhisky/pseuds/TacitWhisky
Summary: Jon should’ve known when Sansa Stark, who despite knowing most of his life he’d said maybe three words to total, appeared in his basement late on a saturday afternoon it would mean trouble.Or, the story of how if Robb’s little sister has to get weed from someone, it might as well be Jon.





	That Time Jon Was Sansa's Weed Hookup

Jon should’ve known when Sansa Stark, who despite knowing most of his life he’d said maybe three words to in total, appeared in his basement late on a Saturday afternoon it would mean trouble.

He’d heard the doorbell ring, but hadn’t really been paying attention. Robb was at some fancy summer camp, Theon off on some weird sailing trip with his uncles, and those were most of Jon’s friends. His mother’s voice had echoed indistinctly above, he’d heard the door shut, and he’d almost forgotten the whole thing when down the stairs of the basement Sansa Stark in a yellow sundress had appeared.

“Uh, hey.” Jon gapes at her a moment before startling up from his slouch on the couch and fumbling for the remote to turn down the TV. “Robb’s not here…” He starts, before remembering just how dumb a thing it is to say.

Sansa’s gaze slides over the basement, ticking over the hamper of laundry in the corner and second hand furniture and faded magazines stacked on a stool. She raises her chin as if making a conscious decision to ignore it. “Hi, Jon,” she says in a prim voice. “I’m not looking for Robb.”

Jon’s never been under any illusions about his place in Sansa Stark’s world: Robb’s charity case friend who only went to the same school as him because of a scholarship, the boy from the wrong side of the tracks who only lived ten minutes away but in a house a tenth as nice as hers. And now she’s here. In his basement. “Arya’s not here either,” he offers.

“That’s fine.” Sansa straightens her back. “I’m here to see you.”

“Uh.” Jon says eloquently. “Why?”

“I want to buy weed from you.”

Jon blinks, mind blank. “I don’t have…” He starts, but Sansa purses her lips and his voice trails off. He glances up the basement stairs, then back at her: Sansa Stark, Robb’s perfect and prim and straight-A younger sister. Here. To buy weed. Jon’s stomach twinges, disappointed though he doesn’t know why. _Of course that’s why she’s here._   _What else would she want from you?_ Carefully, he takes his seat back on the couch and shakes his head. “Robb would murder me if I sold you any.”

Sansa folds her legs beneath her and sits on the couch at a right angle to him, tucks her sundress under her knees. “Here’s why you should sell it to me,” she says matter of fact as though this was a class assignment. “One, I’m not a kid. Two, Robb doesn’t get to decide my life. And three, which is Robb going to want to hear more: that I got it from you or some guy in an abandoned parking lot?”

She isn’t wrong, but still Jon feels uncomfortable, the whole situation too surreal for him to wrap his head around. Sansa Stark. In his basement. Asking for weed. “Why do you even want it?”

“I just do.”

Jon looks at her another minute, then sighs as he realizes some part of him has already made the decision and is now just waiting for the rest of him to catch up and justify it. “Ok. But you’re not paying me.”

Sansa frowns and reaches for a little blue purse he hadn’t noticed she had. “I brought money.”

“You’re a Stark. There’s no way I’m taking money from you.” Jon stands from the couch and crosses to his stash in the shoebox under the fifth drawer of the old cabinet in the corner. Theon had hid it there the last time the three of them had lit up while muttering something about the FBI and listening devices and lizard people. Jon moves back to the couch. “And you have to light up here.”

Sansa opens her mouth, but Jon cuts her off before she can say anything with a firm shake of his head. “I don’t want you freaking out on your own the first time. Robb really _would_ kill me for that.”

Sansa glances up at the stairs leading out of the basement as Jon sets down the shoebox and removes the lid. For the first time since she arrived she looks uncertain, fingers fiddling with the hem of her dress. “Won’t your mom…?”

“She doesn’t care.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.” Jon shrugs. There are aspect of his life he wishes Lyanna Snow was more present for as a mother (being on time, remembering to eat, paying bills), but he’s always been acutely grateful this isn't one of them. “She was kind of a hippy when she was younger.”

“Was that before-” Sansa starts, then stops abruptly..

“My piece of shit dad took off?” Jon finishes for her, and is surprised by just how bitter the words come out. _Do you want to scare off the neighbor girl, idiot?_ “Yeah. She still lights up every once in awhile though.”

Sansa watches silently as Jon busies himself pulling out the little pipe he usually uses and packing the bowl. Only once that’s done does he turn to where she still sits on the couch with her legs tucked under her. “Have you ever smoked anything before?” He asks, more confident now they’re in territory he’s familiar with.

“No.”

“It’s not complicated. This,” he taps the stem of the pipe, “is where you breath in from. And this little hole? You want to put your finger over it until you take a draw.”

Sansa nods and leans forward, intent. So close it’s impossible not to catch a whiff of her perfume, something light and girly, impossible not to notice just how pretty and perfect and prim she is in her yellow sundress, how the spaghetti straps leave her shoulders pale and bare. He clears his throat. _Don’t be a creep._ _She’s Robb’s little sister._ “I’ll take a draw first. Watch, ok?”

He flicks on his lighter and touches the flame to the edge of the bowl, green shavings shrinking and shriveling as they catch. He takes a long draw, grit and sandpaper down his throat, and turns his head to blow out a stream of grey smoke, managing only a single scraping cough as he does. He holds the pipe out to her as a heady feeling flushes through him and a tingle runs down his arms and legs. “Your turn.”

Sansa accepts the pipe at arm’s length the same way someone might a rusty nail and with the weightlessness in his chest Jon can’t help the chuckle that bubbles out of him. Her eyes snap up to him, narrowing, and in one decisive motion she brings the pipe to her lips and takes a draw, cheeks hollowing likes she’s trying to inhale the whole thing.

“Easy, easy,” Jon laughs, leaning forward and grabbing the pipe from Sansa as she falls back on the couch coughing. “That’s awful,” she splutters hoarsely, face screwed in disgust, “why would you ever do that on purpose?”

“It gets easier. Here,” he rises from the couch and grabs a water bottle from the basement fridge, hands it to her as he plops back down. “This’ll help.”

Face still screwed in distaste, Sansa sips at the bottle. She watches as Jon takes another long draw, tingling warmth washing over him as he does. He holds the pipe out to her. “It’ll be easier if you don’t hold it as long.”

Sansa frowns but accepts the pipe. Awkwardly, she turns it between her fingers. Jon swallows his chuckle this time and leans forward, rearranges her fingers around the bowl. “Here, I’ll hold it.”

Sansa tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear and dips her head to the pipe. She looks up at Jon, eyes tilted in a questioning look that makes him prickle all over. He’s not an idiot. He’s always known Sansa is pretty, but it had alway been in the same distant kind of way he thought a field or sunset was pretty; not the intimate and immediate way that has him noticing just how clear and blue her eyes are, how her red hair is gathered behind her head in a loose and effortless whorl, how graceful the long arch of her neck is.

 _Stop gawking._ Sansa’s still looking up at him questioningly, and Jon nods. She takes a draw from the pipe, not quite as deep or long as the first time, and falls back against the side of the couch hiccuping coughs. Jon sets the pipe on the table, a thin wisp of smoke rising from it.

Sansa sips from the bottle. “I don’t think it’s working,” she says with a frown. “I don’t feel any different.”

“Give it a minute.” Jon leans back in the couch, fabric a pleasant friction against his skin. “You’ll get there.”

Sansa glances around the basement, fingers fiddling with the bottle’s cap. Lighting up in his basement with Robb’s little sister, haughty Sansa Stark who's never done anything but look at him with faint distaste, isn’t a situation Jon’s ever thought to prepare for, but he finds himself pleasantly immune to worrying about it, his mind fuzzy as cotton candy. Maybe that’s why he asks; “Why are you here?”

Just like before Sansa shrugs. She tucks back a lock of hair as she looks around the basement. “I wanted to see what it was like.” She says eventually, and bites her lip. “I wanted to see if I’d like it.”

Jon frowns, head prickly. “But why? What is it going to… add? Your life is already-” _Perfect_ , he's about to say, but Sansa has stopped glancing around the basement and is now looking at him, blue eyes strangely vulnerable. If his head wasn’t so filled with fuzzy warmth he could puzzle out why, Jon knows, figure out what to say. But he isn’t. And despite knowing Sansa most of his life he’s never really thought about what it must be like to be her before.

After a long moment Sansa looks away. In the silence Jon picks up the remote and switches the TV back on, flickering light filling the basement. It’s hard to focus on what’s happening on screen though with the faint pins and needles prickling over Jon’s brain, and he finds himself simply staring at it.

“Is the volume on?” Sansa asks. It takes a second for Jon to figure out what she’s talking about, and then another long one to realize that it isn’t and they’ve been sitting in silence for at least ten minutes. He thinks about reaching for the remote and turning the volume up, but it seems like a lot of work at this point, and before he can Sansa tilts her head to the side and wrinkles her nose. “I think I’ve seen this episode. It’s not good.”

“Really? I didn’t think it was your kind of show.”

“It’s not my favorite. I like Jonquil and Florian better.”

“I’ve watched that.”

Sansa’s eyebrows scrunch together. “Really?”

Jon frowns, distantly aware he probably shouldn’t have admitted that. Theon had caught him watching an episode once and brought it up every time they hung out afterwards for a whole month, Robb cackling as Jon got progressively more sullen each time. “Yeah.” He mutters. “So?”

Sansa’s lips twitch and her hand flies up to cover her mouth as a giggle escapes it. The sound startles Jon: never in a million years would he have thought _Sansa Stark_ capable of giggling, but it sounds natural from her, light and girlish and sweet. It takes him a moment to realize what prompted it. He scowls when he does, an expression that Sansa apparently finds hilarious because at the sight of it another giggle escapes her, then another, and then she’s falling back onto the couch in a fit of helpless giggling. Jon’s scowl deepens, some of the haze thinning. “Look, I know it’s dumb and sappy, but-”

“It’s not that.” Sansa sits back up, clearly trying to stop giggling even as a few more hiccup out. “It’s just funny to picture you watching it.”

Jon gives her a wary look, trying to puzzle out what she’s talking about “What do you mean?”

“You know.” Sansa gives him a mock scowl, scrunching her forehead. “You’re so serious.”

A smile tugs at Jon’s lips. “So are you,” he shoots back.

“I have to be.” Sansa leans her head to the side as if listening to a far off sound. “You wouldn’t understand.”

 _Yes I would,_ Jon thinks, but instead of saying it he leans forward and starts packing the bowl of the pipe again. “How are you feeling?” He asks.

“Fuzzy. Warm. Everything’s kind of… spacey. ” Sansa tilts her head to the other side. “Is that right?”

“It’s different for everybody. Theon gets paranoid like half the time and Robb sleepy.”

“Hm.” Sansa hums the note in her throat. “What about you?”

“Fuzzy. Warm.” Jon holds the pipe out to her. “Do you want to try again?”

Sansa scrunches her nose. “It looks like a dick.”

Jon looks at the pipe for a minute, then nods sagely. “It does.”

“Have you ever sucked one?”

Jon frowns as he touches the flame to the bowl. “One what?”

“Dick.”

Jon is midway through a long draw and he explodes in a fit of hacking he’s pretty sure is his lungs exiting his throat. He thumps his chest and coughs some more. “No Sansa, I’ve never sucked a dick.”

“Me either.” Sansa dips her eyes closed. “Have you ever had yours sucked?”

Even with his mind pleasantly fuzzy, Jon knows enough to raise his eyebrows. “You shouldn’t ask people that.”

Her lips curve in a faint smile, eyes still closed. “Why not? Harry Harding wanted me to suck his.”

Jon pauses, trying to swim through the fog of his mind. He considers for a moment. “Did you?”

“No. I found out he was cheating on me.” Sansa hums a note in her throat. “I didn’t really want to anyway.”

“I don’t think most girls do. It’s just kind of something they do because they have to.”

“That’s not true. My friend Myranda loves giving head. And she’s good at it.”

Jon frowns. “How do you know?”

“She told me.” Sansa hums another note, seeming to just like the vibration in her throat. “Harry tried to get her to do it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok.” Sansa shrugs. “I don’t think I ever really liked him that much.”

“Why’d you date him then?”

She shrugs again, and doesn’t answer. Her hum is a pleasant sound, warm and sweet. After a long moment she smiles faintly. “I feel fuzzy,” she announces. “Fuzzy and warm.”

“I remember.”

Sansa unfolds her legs and moves to the edge of the couch. Jon follows her with an eyebrow raised in amusement. “What are you doing?”

“I feel good.” Sansa slides down to kneel between his legs. She smiles up at him, blissful and simple as a summer day. “Don’t you feel good?”

Jon swallows, throat suddenly dry. Feel good. Such a simple concept, but until that moment he doesn’t think he’s ever really understood it. Wasn’t there a reason he shouldn’t, though? Something about Robb. Yeah. Robb. But it’s hard to think about Robb as Sansa looks down at his jeans and tilts her head to the side.

“Sansa.” Jon swallows down the dryness in his throat. “I don’t know if…”

“Hm?” Sansa tilts her blue eyes up at him and smiles faintly. “Don’t know if what?”

“You’re high.” Jon licks his lips. “And you’re Robb’s sister.”

“I just want to see if I like it.” Sansa’s hands runs up his legs, the skin beneath his jeans tingling in their wake. “Don’t you want to see if you like it?”

Jon nods shakily. There’s some special hell he’s going to for this he knows, some fiery torment for guys who slept with the sisters of their friends, but just as Sansa’s hands move up from his legs and touch his zipper-

-the basement stairs creak and his mother’s shoes appear at the top of them.

Sansa springs to her feet, eyes wide as a deer in the headlights. “I have to go,” she says grabbing her purse, and before Jon can sit up or say anything or even quite digest what’s going on she’s fleeing up the stairs past his mother.

Jon has just enough time to grab a cushion and put it over his lap before his mother is at the bottom of the stairs, a laundry basket perched on one hip. She frowns and looks back and forth between Jon and the stairs. “That was the Stark girl, right? What did she want?”

Jon forces himself to shrug and look at the TV like he’s watching it. His heart beats painfully loud in his chest as he stares unseeing at the flickering screen and his mother starts loading clothes into the washer. What had Sansa wanted? He doesn’t know, doesn’t and probably never will. But he does know he’s never going to be able to get the sight of her out of his head, the sight of Sansa Stark in her yellow sundress kneeling between his legs.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [my tumblr](https://tacitwhisky.tumblr.com) to get updates and a preview when the next chapter is closer to being ready.
> 
> And drop me a comment. They give me life. What did you think?


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